Greatest Journey
by TheBatKid
Summary: Sometimes, it only takes a choice to change the world. It only takes one man, one destiny, and one journey to shape the future. Other times, it requires more. This is the story of that one man. This is the story, of Caesar's greatest weapon.
1. Wanderer

Greatest Journey

The coldness of the air was gripping. For days he had walked, not knowing exactly where he was going and, at the same time, hoping that he got there soon. Hot dusty sun shone down on his back – if there were a God up there, as his parents had so often insisted, he was not paying attention to this wanderer.

The sun-baked earth was like concrete beneath him. Each footstep brought with it its own heartache, backache and sorrow, of which there seemed to be plenty in the wasteland. Mere miles across the Colorado River and he had noticed it; the death, destruction, lying all around him whilst he walked, lost on what to do next. Maybe he should give up? Maybe he should go home?

After what he had seen, there would be no turning back.

A strangled cry sounded from the distance, but not in the direction he was facing. It sounded similar to a woman although, from the desolation he had seen, there could be no society in that place. It would surely kill any poor soul who set up there. It was a hostile world.

"Elijah," the name for God, "Elijah, why have you forsaken me?" he had never feared the entity; however, circumstances seemed to change this. Drastically his perception altered, transforming from a sceptic to a believer, and none of these skins would last. How could they? He was not that sort of man.

The golden pathways squirmed in front. His eyes narrowed to peer at them, to see a clear road that he could wander, yet none of them were particularly enticing. Cracked, broken, destroyed – they were as Caesar had told him, a monument to a once-great civilization, which had found its death in the pouch of nuclear energy, and failed to protect itself from the inhabitants. What he saw was not a world but, rather, an empty husk of what used to be, in a vain attempt to regain some footing. It was disgusting.

He would not go back to Caesar.

Another cry, this time closer. It was masked by the howl of coyotes, digging into a fleshy meal and guarding their Den Mother, all the while searching for another victim. He dare not pass through those shady places, even though the sweat trickled down his forehead. Beads formed quickly on his sunburnt features and, like they had broken from a curse, descended down to his lips, where they evaporated to freedom.

Boyish was this man, with free falling black hair and dark blue eyes. The wild locks brushed into that ocean and, in another show of exasperation, he brushed them back, as if the action was enough to sap his strength. A single shawl of ripped white hung off his body, trained to a peak physical range, and hounded by the truth of his origin.

Anyone would have thought he was a man of twenty, yet in reality he was no more than sixteen. What he had been through could constitute to eight times his age, perhaps even twenty times if he remembered half of it; the memory could do strange things to protect itself.

He had to keep moving.

"Elijah, Elijah! Why have you forsaken me?" his voice was a mere whisper by this stage. The body he had trained so religiously was failing, breaking, without the use of water or food to replenish it. Energy he thought he would keep was depleted and he saw his fate – death, in that hardened sun-baked earth. There was nothing in that desert for him.

Why did he leave?

Hours more were spent in a valiant struggle, although even he knew he could not go on. Soon, he began to feel the weight of exhaustion, and collapsed in the doorframe of a ruined home. Scattered bricks broke the fall, granted they did not comfort him. No roof meant that there existed no shade, no peace, whilst the half-intact walls would never serve him as a shield. This would be his deathbed. Where else could a man die?

There was no brain power to think. Any of his available reserves were used up, spent on keeping his organs alive and, ultimately, condemning him to a sluggish death. Perhaps that was what he deserved – after all, some of the things he had done were vile, despite his being a child when doing so. He would look upon no man with mercy, should he have done the same.

"Maybe here," a voice drifted through the stilled air, which had been heavy on the wanderer's back, "There's bound to be some Stimpaks. I'm still not entirely convinced about that suitcase, but if you're sure!"

The next voice was female, "Of course I'm sure! Do you expect me to go back? There were Deathclaws all over the place!" the wanderer dare not move, dare not breathe as these people came to look, hoping that they would think him lifeless. Caesar had told him many stories about those savages; they would torture and kill a live man and yet, only rob a dead one. Once they saw he had nothing valuable, they would hopefully move on.

"Oh look, another fruit of the wasteland," the man's speech was soft, softer than the men he had grown with, although it held an air of sarcasm to it, "Perhaps I'm being too cynical, but I think we're never too far from a dead body."

"It's a tough world out there."

"That doesn't mean that we should turn on each other the moment we can, does it?" a heavy hand rested on the wanderer's shoulder, turning him to face the glaring sunlight. He tried his best to pretend; he had never acted like a dead man before.

"Only the bad people kill one another – we're just surviving, Arcade."

"You'll forgive me if I don't see it that way. My mother always said to play nicely," he dared to open an eye and, as he did so, he could see a flash of blonde hair. Harsh sunlight reflected from dazzling lenses, so perfectly clean that they seemed improbable, whilst the furrowed brow of this man continued its movement, like the wanderer's state confused him.

The woman's blurred form came into sight, "What is it? Why're you staring so hard at him?"

For a moment, he willed to be home. He wanted to be underneath those canopies, lazing in the shade with a chilled glass of water, whilst the slaves about him moved to the whips. The sound of Caesar's voice would be like an angel, a beacon of light in his otherwise heavenly world, whereas here it only squawked with vultures, which circled overhead as these people gazed.

"He's not dead," Arcade bluntly replied, "He's acting as though he is. Hello, are you sane in there? Can you talk to us?" the wanderer could barely make sense of his words, and took a while to realise he was being addressed. Even then, he simply let out a dehydrated wail.

"Sounds thirsty. Here, I've got some water," the woman disappeared from sight, although Arcade stayed. His smile illuminated his vision.

"What's your name? Can you tell us your name?"

He understood these words; with a great effort, he managed to gasp out, "B-Brutus…" and then he felt the world fading. The blurred images he had slowly diminished, the people over him becoming little more than words, whilst all the while they continued to talk.

"He's barely coherent. We've got to help him."


	2. Urgent Awakening

Light flooded into Brutus's eyes, so sharp that he thought he was dead. For a moment it burned, searing through the highly trained retinas, before the initial shock passed and he was able to glance around. Where was he?

It was an old room he sat in, with mildew-covered wooden panelling and a range of broken ornaments. Each one had a shattered appendage; it seemed as though no one could find an intact piece, especially in the emptiness of New Vegas. His limbs felt heavy when he attempted to stretch up, just so he could gaze at some of the irradiated figurines, and a slight groan escaped his abnormally wet lips.

"You're awake," Brutus strained to look at this man, who faded into his vision as if he were a dream, "I was worried you wouldn't wake up, bit like the Courier. You got a name, son?"

The warm smile was betrayed by this balding man's eyes, which twinkled and festered with intent. It was a struggle to choke out his answer.

"Brutus," came the reply, "My name's Brutus – I'm not from here." Another voice sounded from the edge of the room, from a man the wanderer had not noticed due to his first fascination.

"What's the next bombshell you're going to drop?" the soft chuckles came from the man before, who his female companion had affectionately called 'Arcade', "Warn me before you do, okay? I'll have to make sure I'm sitting down."

Without replying to this hero, Brutus clambered unsteadily to his feet. He realised that the bed he had laid on was, at best, mediocre, although he showed a false gratitude to the aged doctor. After all, they did not need to put him up for the…how long had it been?

The pair watched as he prowled toward the window, a brand new swath of leather armour clinging to his frame, "This town; what's it called?"

"Goodsprings, son."

"NCR territory?" his questions seemed a little off-putting for Arcade; what kind of man would ask such questions, if he were not running from the law?

"Independent, for now. The NCR will probably declare it governmental property sooner or later, but these people don't seem to care much for that," he absent-mindedly removed his glasses, eyes still trained on Brutus's form. It leaned carefully over a dirty unused bed, one that Doctor Mitchell had in case of a 'pandemic' and the other became occupied, and glared intently out of the recently polished window, which allowed a stream of sunlight to flood the room. It certainly gave an abysmal finish to such an ill-prepared hospital.

The wanderer spent a few minutes gazing before he replied, "Good. Thank you for patching me up – I'd have probably died if you didn't find me."

"Probably? There's no doubt about it, son! If the Courier and Mr Gannon hadn't have found you, well, you'd be pushing up Xander roots by now."

Doctor Mitchell did not like people leaving without a sense of reality, and this man seemed to be in desperate need of it. Even as he spoke to them, revealing a deep voice with an almost non-existent understanding, he seemed to be talking as if in a daze, like the world outside had completely terrified him. Shock was something he did not deal with often.

Arcade, however, was more informed, "He's right, but I'm not expecting you to know that. You've been out for a few days now; I'm guessing you'd be hungry, right?" Brutus could barely register what he was saying, too fearful about staying there. He had to start moving again – this journey would not end in Goodsprings, a seemingly idyllic, post-apocalyptic farmland.

"Hello? Earth to Brutus?" the female voice drifted into his ear again, which caused a sudden shiver to run down his spine. So wrapped up in himself, he had neglected to realise that the Courier had been standing there, a gun strapped to her side and beady grey eyes directed at him. The matt of brown hair on her head reminded him of something; it resembled the way the slaves looked, after a particularly hard day on the mud-fields and crop plantations. She was hardly a beautiful example of what New Vegas had to offer, but he cared little for that. He needed to start moving.

"I'll find something out there. I've got to get moving now, before the sun sets. I'm going to be late otherwise," he was babbling like a madman by this point, rather like a little white rabbit that the Courier had read about, and akin to a similar story Arcade was forced to hear. Doctor Mitchell was the only one to react.

"Now there, son, you've had a rough time of it," a fatherly hand patted his leather-clad shoulder, "There's no harm in taking a rest, especially since you're conscious. Why don't you head over to the saloon and get a drink?" the grey eyes sparkled with something – care, maybe? – but Brutus was not in the mood to delay. He needed to get to this mysterious 'Strip', before he was too late.

Arcade was the only one to realise his urgency. The blonde-haired man sat back in his rickety chair, his head propped up by his left fist and his glasses balanced expertly on his nose. His strangely pale complexion was a marvel in such conditions; the wanderer had noticed it upon their first meeting, although there was no way he could comment. Perhaps he grew up in a 'Vault', as Caesar had so often explained? That would explain his slightly sarcastic air, if the only people he had grown up with were used to it.

Brutus turned away from his saviour, "No, there's no time. I've got to get to the Strip. Can anyone tell me the way to go? I'm supposed to meet someone there."

In actual fact, the wanderer had arranged nothing for his arrival. It was simply a spur of the moment decision, a realisation he had come to during his lonely travels, and one that was fabricated from many 'discussions' within Cottonwood Cove. He needed to be there, soon.

He did not have time to waste.

"If you're going to the Strip, we'll go with you. Arcade, you don't mind carrying that incinerator around, do you?" the Courier cast a bemused glance towards her friend who, by this point, was giving her an 'I'm going to kill you' half-look. He nodded without much complaint although they both knew he minded.

"I must go alo-"

"Sorry, buddy. Rules are rules, and Doc Mitchell says you're not allowed to go anywhere by yourself," the Courier's face suddenly loomed beside him, so closely that he could smell her hair's strange aroma. The sharp sensed man reeled backwards before regaining his position, as if they were in an unspoken match of will. Beady eyes clashed with a deep ocean, and they were silent for moments.

Brutus did not like this place. It was too quiet, too lifeless; places like this would be easily crushed, destroyed in a second and forgotten even sooner, without a second thought for the people who had lived there. At least in the Legion, their home had been something to marvel. The hospital was a finely constructed tent, harbouring stolen equipment like medical braces and Stimpaks, whereas this place was a dingy little backstreet home, which had been half-ruined in a century-old blast. He saw the way the wallpaper clung to the wall, in a vain attempt to make the place look less deathly.

Arcade was the one to end their game, "Not that I want to break up this staring contest but, if we're going to The Strip, we better go now. It's going to be dark soon." He stood from the chair, giving a groan of discomfort and borderline bone-idleness. The journey's he had been forced through were, at the kindest description, human slavery.

"Fine," Brutus replied, "I shall travel with you until we reach the Strip, but then I must go my own path. It doesn't concern you."

He had to get there soon.


	3. NCR Land

The afternoon chill was setting in by the time they left, with Arcade fretting about their essentials. Doc Mitchell provided them with all he could in the way of supplies, passing a large helping of Yucca fruit and Instamash to them, although this did nothing for the Follower. He wanted to know their supplies would hold out.

Brutus was, as he had always been, silent on the journey. Whilst they travelled over the dusty highway of Quarry Junction, which had been cleared of its recent Deathclaw populace, the wanderer replied to none of Arcade's questions, or even turned his head to pay attention. Instead, the man simply sighed and tutted, as if bored with the genuine curiosity.

"Really, Brutus; I could write a book with all this information, can you slow down a little?" the researcher sarcastically said, following the Courier like a lost puppy. What he did not realise was Brutus' affiliation, how he had been taught to deflect questions at all costs – if they were to know his true origin and, possibly, the reason why he travelled so far, they would never allow him to survive.

It was a moment before he graced Arcade's persistence, "There will be plenty of time for explanation; for now, just trust that my business is important." Not exactly the answer he was looking for, although it was more an answer than he expected. After so long in complete silence, the researcher might have thought his tongue had been cut out, had he not spoken to them a while ago.

And so they walked, not fully understanding the man's importance but, at the same time, respecting that he had travelled such a distance. If he were willing to venture over the Mojave without so much as water, he must have had something fairly relevant to do.

Either that, or he was completely insane. Both were good answers.

"It's getting dark, Brutus; we'll have to set up for the night," the Courier finally said, a few hours after the sun had set. He gave her an awkwardly cocked eyebrow, a slight chuckle before completely disregarding her, and pressed on towards the illuminated tower above. That must have been the Strip, where his life would surely change. Although in some ways, it already had.

Arcade noticed his determination, "There's nothing out in the wastes worth dying for. You'd do better to get back and help us find a camp spot – trust me, it's better to just agree with her. She can be a real pain in an area I don't like to think about."

Since he sounded so earnest, Brutus decided that one night's delay would not harm proceedings. After all, when he had finally passed the news, every detail of the Mojave would change…it was just he did not know how, that was the problem. But he could not tell these people that. They would never understand.

With a great sigh, he abandoned the heavy burden on his back and ventured cautiously to a pile of twigs. His training in Cottonwood Cove had, at best been limited, although nothing seemed particularly different from the two places. Twigs were twigs, houses were houses, enemies were spies and soldiers were targets. It was the same everywhere, which scared him as he gathered up the meagre firewood.

When would he escape the violence? The matinee of death? When would he finally shed the skin of who he once was, remove the past from his life and look to a prosperous future, where he would not be known as a heartless slaver? It seemed that wherever he went, death would quickly follow him.

"Perfect, that should burn nicely," Arcade complimented when he arrived, his arms laden with the dry burden. It had not rained for a good long time in the wasteland, and dry firewood came in a large abundance with all the new constructions going on; nevertheless, Brutus was 'dazed and confused', making the researcher more liable to congratulate him. He would not be that kind to the Courier.

Speaking of the she-warrior; she had just set up two decent-sized tents, one dotted with appealing flowers and the other patterned with stripes. It was by pure luck that Arcade had happened upon these, completely intact at the bottom of a mine.

"Right, who wants to go in what?" an old joke, as the Follower was never partial to fragrant flowers. He pointed rapidly towards the less showy one, which he was certain he had claimed not long ago.

"I'm staying it that one, whether you like it or not."

"Fine, fine, you big girl – what about you, Brutus? Which one are you going to sleep in?" her beady eyes showed a hint of warmth for a moment, a motherly affection that he had never seen before; however, he was quick in his reply.

"Outside," his answer caused Arcade to frown, "I'm sleeping outside, where I can see what's coming."

"Nothing's going to attack so close to Camp McCarran, Brutus," the researcher pointed out whilst cleaning his glasses. The silk tie moved expertly over the already gleaming surface.

"Camp McCarran?"

"NCR land," the Courier cut in, fixing the firewood in a proper position, "It's had a problem with fiends before, but they're gone for the most part. Only a few stray ones left; aren't enough to keep us up all night, and definitely not enough to cause so much of a problem."

"NCR?!" the wanderer jumped up, as if the fire had been started right underneath him, his eyes spinning wildly in his head. Arcade gripped his muscled calf quickly, retracting his hand almost as quickly as he had caught it.

"What's wrong?! Calm down!" he shouted above the noise, his own eyes sparkling with wonderment.

"I can't be anywhere near NCR!" Brutus 'explained' in a rush, "They're…we're…there's some bad blood between their organisation and my own, so I simply cannot be caught by them!"

The Courier's interests suddenly peaked. What 'bad blood' could be so bad, so brutal that the arguers could not even be near each other? That they risked arrest by simply being on their land? The only people she could think of…no, that could not be right…

"Well, you better like it or lump it," she firmly barked, "We're not moving from this spot, not until the suns up. You'll have to lump it, I guess!"


	4. Remembrance

Brutus opened his eyes to the harsh sunlight, beaming mercilessly through a blue tent flap. The heat was unbearable, crushing, although for some reason it became less so as he got up, a swift gesture made to displace the blanket on top of him.

"And finally, he wakes up," a familiar sneer came from behind him, and the man turned to see, "You're going to displease Caesar if you keep sleeping in, Brutus."

A smile descended upon his face; the face he saw was the image of a friend, a brother who had taught him everything, the rock of his childhood. Jet black hair fell sharply over a dusty, paint-streaked face, the sharp eyes underneath as red as his voice was powerful, whilst his yellowed teeth seemed to be filed to a point. Sometimes, on cold winter nights, Brutus had laughed around the campfire with him, hinting that his hardened exterior resembled that of a dog.

"I'll never displease Caesar – he's named me the successor, Lorenzo!" the chuckle came from Brutus' own throat, although he found himself not in control. They moved together quickly to embrace, a rapid hug that could never be spoken, as their forefather had strict rules about acts of affection. The boys were brothers.

Hugs were natural between brothers.

It was Lorenzo who began speaking again, "That may be, but you've still got to prove you're worth leadership. Where's the documents…ah, screw it, follow me."

They set up a brisk pace out of the tent, and immediately Brutus recognised the outside. Standing tall above a sun-baked rock, little shade for the people already awake, thirsty slaves toiling at the hardened earth – it was his home, his Cottonwood Cove, and a pang of longing hit his throat.

"There's some training sessions on for the recruits," Lorenzo was explaining, as if his companion had noticed the lack of children, "Not sure who's taking them, but they wanted me to do it at first. Are they serious? I don't like kids on a good day." He continued yammering on about things that did not matter; however, Brutus was grateful for it, since he had not heard such inane talk in a great deal of time.

Whilst walking, they passed many familiar sights. There were slaves working the fields where he had once played, being whipped by the men he had looked up to and begging for glasses of water as they toiled. Their muddy, dirt-streaked faces were plagued by exhaustion and, for the women, a haunting reality, like their worlds had crumbled to ash upon arriving here. At that time he could not understand.

After all, Lorenzo was there. His friends were there. Caesar - the great and merciless Caesar - lived there. What else could these people want? They were in the presence of the greatest men to ever live! And the women…they were being honoured in their own way, in a way that their leader deemed fit.

But, soon, his brother noticed his distraction, "You feeling okay?"

Suddenly, everything seemed to explode. No longer was he in that idyllic little world he loved, but rather he was being shielded from an attack. He saw Lorenzo's face in the distance, contorted in what seemed like a scream, mouthing something that he could not read. He lay down in the dusty trenches and seemed to be in pain, although none of this destroyed his statuesque form.

Explosions sounded overhead. Brutus fell, unable to move himself, and he only found strength enough to raise his head. In the madness of the explosions, he somehow deduced that they were grenades.

This was their homeland – who would be attacking them here?

"LORENZO!" his shouts made no sound. The explosions overhead became louder, more frequent, and drowned out whatever noise he could make alone. Lorenzo mouthed again. He tried to scream. The man's hand gestured. He turned.

All was black.

"Lorenzo, no!" the screams made a sound this time, although he suddenly found himself in the striped tent. Like a madman he sat upright, eyes strained in the darkness to see, ears pricked to hear. There were beads of sweat trickling down his head, as if some sort of strange pattern that plagued his boyish looks.

Arcade stirred beside him, more annoyed than anything else. In the darkness he could see Brutus' silhouette, muscled against the blackened outline, and for a moment he found himself stunned silent, like he could not believe such a young boy possessed such a frame.

But of course, sarcasm returned, "Lovely, I was hoping for a wakeup call. At night. Twenty minutes after I went to sleep." His words fell upon deaf ears as Brutus got up, wandering like he was in a trance, moving towards the frozen wasteland outside.

"Nice to know I'm so highly valued," Arcade said to himself, "You're going to be an integral part in his decision making, Gannon, I can tell you right now."

With a great sigh of exasperation, he got up and followed the Legionnaire, whose affiliation he still had no idea about. Brutus was standing outside in the cold now with breathe like smoke, his eyes strained towards the sooty black horizon where, if they listened closely, they could hear the final screams of a heavily drunk woman. Snuffling sounds of Geckos would be heard after that, who feasted so happily on the entrails of the deceased.

But Brutus did not seem to care.

"It's too cold to be out here," Arcade warned.

"It's colder to lie awake," he muttered in defiance, "I'm much better out here where I can see. Don't you like it out here?"

"Not when I risk pneumonia, I don't."

"Then you're a fool – the best satisfaction comes from being outside, in a world we can inhabit and make our own. You've never looked at the stars and wondered?"

Arcade cleaned his glasses, respectfully side-stepping his offensive language, "I've wondered why aliens came to invade our planet, which made us blow up a good deal of the population and retreat into vaults; that's not what you meant though, is it?"

With a sigh, Brutus looked up, at the twinkling stars that had so often mesmerised him and made him smile. Once upon a time, Lorenzo…Lorenzo…

"I've wondered," he replied.


	5. A Friend to the Enemy

The next day, they set off towards the Strip. Brutus had been somewhat silent after his nightmare, even though he had a tight frown on his lips and a furious expression. How could they have wasted a whole night? He had things to do!

"Slow down!" the Courier cried as he darted along the road, "If you keep running like that, you'll trip over!"

It was true – these roads had long been smashed and destroyed, their pathetic remnants just a reminder of what once was, and Brutus was not watching where he put his feet. It was a miracle the wanderer had not already fallen.

"Fine!" his reply came as a disgruntled huff, "I'll stop…if you two get a move on! You're wasting time!" a direct cry out to Arcade who, by this point was struggling to keep up. He had been trained as a doctor after all, one that did not need to scamper over hillsides or fight great beasts, although that did not mean he was not a fan of change. What was a life without challenge? If he had stayed in that tiny little tent all day, without so much as a worthy adversary, his mind would have surely collapsed by now.

A large howl echoed from the distance, where the mountain-tops had become dusted with grass sprigs and bore all kinds of treacherous fruit. Brutus gazed up quickly, checking if any threats were near them before he turned, eyes focused on the Courier, his mouth twitching with an unknown thought.

"Coyotes."

"Yeah, we know," she replied whilst kicking a bent tin can. Where did all these useless pieces of scrap come from? Hardly anyone she saw carried tins with them, even if they were starving; they just slowed people down, made them easier targets for slavers and such.

"Their homes are normally around here. They can hide more efficiently in the mountains," Arcade explained in his typical fashion, "sometimes they'll venture out, when the food's running low."

Another brisk pace was set towards the houses, in which many families attempted to form shattered lives and run broken dreams. The once-white exteriors were ruined, destroyed, all in the name of a government that had no other option, no other choice but to sacrifice the many to save the few. Each fragment of the paint served as a bitter reminder of that day – if it were not for all this destruction, no one would even remember the Great War.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't like coyotes," the wanderer admitted as he shifted through the wreckage, searching for something he could utilise, "They're pests in my home. When we were younger, our leader would tell us not to wander out by ourselves because of them; they'd sooner eat us then be our pets, so there's no point in their existence."

Arcade was a little miffed for a moment, his mind working to fathom that sentence. Could Brutus really believe something like that? Where did he come from that was so narrow minded? Creatures had their place in the world just as he did, although it was mostly to keep other creatures from overpopulating. Spiders were probably a good example…

The doctor tiptoed cautiously behind him, the hot ground almost sizzling with each tentative step. Brutus was definitely a strange character, one that kept himself to himself, which meant that Arcade was dutifully interested. What secrets did he have?

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for a weapon," the wanderer replied, his eyes transfixed on each broken thing, "There's got to be something here…"

"You're never going to find a decent gun in that," the Courier called as she fumbled in her duffle bag. Its sad, worn form sagged slightly under her arm, since it had seen far more adventure than most other bags. Each broken clasp, clip and zip was a memorable event in itself, as if it stood as a picture of their time together, and would be discarded once the bag lost its usefulness.

Finally, she found a suitable piece for her companion. A near-ruined 9mm pistol, specially prepared to hold more ammo and modified for faster equipping, sat happily in her hand, like it was excited at the prospect of fighting again. Many years had passed; hopefully Brutus, with his hard hands and sharp blue stare, would prove to be a suitable wielder.

Cautiously he stepped forward, like he was wary of such a kind gesture. Unbeknownst to his current companions, Brutus had never been shown such affection, such kindness by anyone other than Lorenzo – a man who had died for him, but for what reason remained unclear. Caesar would be furious.

Brutus smiled; Caesar could screw himself.

"Thank you," he murmured quietly, unsure of how to act whilst he inspected the weapon, "I've…I've never had a gift before."

Arcade raised one eyebrow, since he was unsure that this constituted as a gift. It was more a necessary evil in the eyes of the Followers, something that could not escape if they were really going to help, although there was no reason to diminish sentiment. Even the Courier had kept her mouth shut; Brutus' small smile was enough, the fact that he seemed so happy with a gesture so small.

"Well, that's what partners do for each other," she told him in a soft voice. He looked up for a moment and nodded, opening his mouth as if he were about to say something.

An abrupt howl cut him off. This one was certainly closer than the last one had been, made from something with a much larger lung capacity. Brutus stepped back and peered off into the distance, where a small grey speck danced on the wavy horizon. He could hardly see past ruined houses, built monuments and pathetic attempts of settlements, in which people had tried to piece together lives and, somehow, form some sense of a livelihood out of them.

_Simple farmers? Harsh dreamers, more likely, _he thought scornfully. In what stretch of the imagination did they survive? He hated the way they seemed so content with things as they were; it made him feel like more of an outsider for thinking as he did, wishing for a better life than what he had. Caesar would have damned him for such thoughts…

"We must go," he turned from the others, "Now."


	6. Drinking

Arcade couldn't say he trusted Brutus. He wanted to look into that steely blue gaze and see a glimmer of worthiness, a little vibrancy, but he knew that he couldn't trust a man who didn't seem to care either way. The stranger's flat-footed gallop made him wonder where he'd got such large muscles and from where he knew the landscape – no one came out into the Mojave without a clear idea of where they were going, obviously. It would be suicide.

"So, Brute," he had made up a nickname to make the wanderer feel more comfortable, although it was normally rewarded with a fierce glare, "Ready to tell us why you're out here?"

"No." Came the blunt reply, not even offering a reason why he couldn't tell them as he had done so many times before. Arcade's eyebrows rose whilst he gave a sideways glance toward the Courier, who was busy scrabbling in the sad burlap sack she'd been hauling around with her. There must have been a snack in there somewhere…

Brutus was going mad in that monotonous landscape. For miles he could see nothing but golden sand, stretching as far as the mountains that cornered them and above the horizon that he could barely see. Screeching sunlight poured down over his hardened body as he continued to power through, despite the obvious fact that his strength was finally failing him. How long had it been since he'd drunk anything? The doctor could see a single bead of sweat breaking free on his forehead, where it descended down past his nose and fell to the floor with a sizzling pop.

It was such a pity he couldn't thoroughly study the effects of dehydration, "You're going to kill yourself if you don't have a drink, Brutus. Not much use coming out here if you're just going to drop dead."

The wandered gave him another fierce glare as if challenging him, although soon he nodded in defeat and searched quickly in his pocket. A dirty, mud-clogged old water bottle lay nestled within the confines of his armour, where he'd hidden it so that he could search for an old water source. He knew that Lake Mead was the cleanest source of water in all of the Mojave; one of Caesar's objectives was to snatch the lake away from the NCR, so that he could rule with an iron and hydrated fist of pure dictatorship.

"Where's the lake?"

"About seventy miles in the direction we're going," Arcade smirked at his poor excuse for a container, "You're not really going to try and drink out of that? You'll catch some mutant disease before we even reached the Strip."

Brutus felt a blush run across his cheeks, "It's all I have."

"Here, try this instead," the doctor scrambled in his bag to pull out a filled bottle of water, one that held the clear liquid in its gleaming plastic shell, "I've even got it all filled up for you; there's plenty to go around."

Again the wandered hesitated, like he couldn't understand why Arcade was offering him such a rarity. That time it wasn't the concept of getting a gift or receiving some sort of kindness – it was the idea that someone would actually offer the life-saving prospect of water, rather than keeping quiet about it and saving it all for themselves.

"Are you sure?" his voice came out as a whimper, "It's…it's water, Arcade."

"Really?! Oh thank you for reminding me!" the sarcastic reply made Brutus flinch away for a moment, like a child who was being scolded for playing his games, which made Arcade quickly change to a softer tone, "Of course I'm sure, Brutus. I wouldn't be giving it to you otherwise. Come on; take it." With a gentle thrust into the man's awaiting hand, Arcade handed him the water bottle and watched for his fascinating reaction.

The wanderer didn't quite know what to do. Lorenzo hadn't even given him water before and, when considering their close brotherly relationship, he'd always thought that water was a gift that couldn't be given. Over the years water had become more and more scarce, with the rain depleting and the only recent invention of rain-catchers in Caesar's Legion, meaning that each Legionnaire had taken the attitude that their water was too good to give away.

"Thank you…?" he stammered slightly on the words though Arcade knew why. By the way that Brutus was closely inspecting the bottle and checking it for any oddities, the doctor assumed he came from a place that wasn't entirely trustworthy.

_Probably a tribe where they'd rather cut your throat than talk to you, _he thought to himself as he gave the man a heart-warming smile.

The Courier had finally found her packet of sweets and was enjoying the first bite of them when she caught sight of Arcade. The doctor's warm glow was enough to combat the sun itself, his pale cheeks positively streaming with the happiness of their encounter. She'd never seen him look so happy unless he had a book of advanced physics in his hands, and even then it was only until he'd finished reading the thing. About five seconds into following his gaze, she found that her own smile was starting to stretch.

Brutus' eyes had dimmed down to a faint hue as he unscrewed the blue cap, taking his first tentative sips like a baby with its first cup. He stared cautiously at the landscape as he did so, a faint idea in his head that someone would try and take the precious water away from him, although soon he seemed to be enjoying it.

"It's like having a child," Arcade commented quietly into the Courier's ear, even though he didn't like children at the best of times, "So proud when he starts doing something new."

"Don't be going all soft on me Arcade!" her warning was mixed with the faint traces of humour as she swung the bag over her shoulder.

"Me? Soft? Whatever gave you that idea?"


End file.
